


pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, where hushed awakenings are dear

by Garlicbreadbowl



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Art Kid!Shaun, Dad!Danse, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Found Family, I love these guys, I see your 'Shaun is sciency bc he's from the Institute', Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Morning Cuddles, Real thrilling trio we got here huh, Romance, again very soft and mostly safe but just in case, and raise 'But what if he's traumatized and hates science now', anyway, idk if its egoistical for ur comfort otp to be character x oc but, it's generally a pretty sfw fic but u know, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garlicbreadbowl/pseuds/Garlicbreadbowl
Summary: The Brotherhood, for all its glory, is cold.Cold bunks, cold steel, cold eyes and voices, cold determination. The only warmth is from the smoking barrel of a laser rifle or an overheating suit of Power Armor.There is a ceaseless chill in every Brotherhood-occupied area he’s ever been in. He prefers the cold,  so the unaccountably-low temperature never fazed him. Actually, before, he’d always choose the bite that made you aware, kept you focused, over the hazy fog of heat.But that was before.Now?Now, as he slowly blinks, blinded by morning sun peering past the shutters, limbs entangled with the other man’s?Everything about it is so, so warm.~OR~The morning after the first night they sleep in the same bed, Danse has some ruminations, Jess has no sense of 'personal space', and Shaun has a caffeine addiction.
Relationships: Paladin Danse & Synth Shaun (Fallout), Paladin Danse/Male Sole Survivor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, where hushed awakenings are dear

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this while eating strawberries and chocolate, with a bruised tailbone. It hurts to sit. help.
> 
> anyway pls talk to me about my boy Jess.

The Brotherhood, for all its glory, is cold.

Cold bunks, cold steel, cold eyes and voices, cold determination. The only warmth is from the smoking barrel of a laser rifle or an overheating suit of Power Armor. 

There is a ceaseless chill in every Brotherhood-occupied area he’s ever been in. He prefers the cold, so the unaccountably-low temperature never fazed him; before, he’d always choose the bite that made you aware, kept you focused, over the hazy fog of heat. 

But that was before.

Now?

Now, as he slowly blinks, blinded by morning sun peering past the shutters, limbs entangled with the other man’s?

Everything about it is so, so _warm_.

His lover’s skin is warm against him. The comforters have absorbed their shared body heat, kept it trapped in cotton. Sun pours into the room, bathing the two in warming light, illuminating his lover’s still form.

How could he have lived without this?

The thoughts dissipate as Jess stirs in his arms, head tucked under his chin, face buried in his collarbone. Flame-scarred hands sleepily stroke his back. A thumb rubs circles into his skin, chapped lips press lazily at his neck. 

Jesse’s body is the antithesis of the soul it holds. It’s sharp, pointy and harsh. The skin is marred, eviscerated by burn, blade, and bullet. He’s more scar tissue than skin, more damaged than whole. Danse had asked, once, how such a soft man came to have such roughened, disfigured flesh.

It was one of those up-till-sunrise talks, the type that keeps you up all night until birdsong made you realize what time it was. A six-pack of cold beer, the gentle flow of the river, no one watching but the stars above, the subject of how Jess got to that point came up. 

Danse had accepted another bottle, and their fingers brushed. Tough scar tissue scratched against his skin, so polarizing compared to the softness of the gesture and the man who it covered. 

  
So, he tentatively asked what happened. Jesse was in the army; he assumed it was a collection of battle scars.

The other man had quieted, fidgeted around the glass in his hands. Cleared his throat, explained that his home town in Greece was an isolated Christian cult, fanatics that would burn a child at the stake for being ‘wrong’.

Danse didn't know how to respond - so he didn’t. Put his arm across the other man’s shoulders instead. Ultimately, it didn’t matter, so he didn’t need to know. Besides, the texture of his skin didn’t change his nature - soft, tender, lovely. 

It was such an odd, childish word when he was a young Knight. ‘Lovely’? Nothing about the wasteland was ‘lovely’. That word was all but abandoned, left to rot with time alongside the ignorant, careless world that used it. 

It took awhile for him to realize it, but Jesse Boswel was truly, truly _lovely_. 

Beside him, the Minuteman squirms closer, adamant in there being not an inch of space between them. Still he carrasses the expanse of Danse’s back. 

Danse is a man of vocabularic forte, but the only word to describe the man in his arms is lovely. 

Lovely, lovely, lovely. Once so fatuous, so inconceivably naive - now a word he wants to whisper against the cheek of the man he cherishes. 

It’s _such_ a good word, now. How else would he describe Jess’s habit of gesturing with his head like a puppy, the way he smiles and fawns over his son, all of the words of comfort he gives so recklessly like he’ll never run out of them? How else would he describe the pure tenderness the man radiates, the softness of his eyes and voice, the way he embodies the very idea of _home_?

Jess pulls out from his neck, blinks slowly and tiredly at him, rubs their noses together and dear God, how did he ever live a life that wasn’t this? 

Danse, through the haze of warmth and safe comfort, kisses the sharp jut of his lover’s cheekbone, follows the line down to the corner of his lips and decides that he looks good with the sun framing his silhouette. Brings his hand to the small of his back, pulls him closer, traces the fire-licked patches that swathed his lover.

Lover is also a word he’s grown soft towards. 

The first time Jesse called him that, he handed the Minuteman a wrench in the garage and earned a “Thank you, lover.” At a far-too crowded settlement, he was pulled aside and asked “Are you feeling alright, my lover?” Some citizen in Diamond City spat at him for being a synth, and after growling at the guy, Jess told him “Pay him no mind, lover.”

Every single time, his heart swelled and stomach flipped. 

Right now, as Jesse plays with his hair, ‘lover’ is such a powerful word in the sheer simplistic sweetness of it. 

The other man pushes gently at his chest, maneuvering them so his back is against the mattress and Jess lays across his chest, peppering kisses at his jaw, his collarbone, the pulse at his throat. 

At first, he had eschewed the idea of sleeping together, in the same bed. It was just too much, far too much than he had ever planned for himself, ever thought could happen. Too real. A cementation of the fact that this thing between them was _happening_.

Of course, there were still more milestones for their relationship, more things they would eventually do as partners. Being in love meant that certain events and actions would have to take place. They’d had to reveal they were in love to the others at some point - Danse was thankful that Jess hadn’t rushed him, was letting him take the time he needed to process this before explaining it to everyone else, but he was not going to make Jess love him and be loved behind closed doors until the end of time. He wouldn’t do that to him. 

Honestly, it wasn’t that Danse _didn’t_ want them to know; he just wanted time to figure this out for himself. He knew he loved Jess and Jess loved him - that was undeniable, try as he might for the first week after their confessions at Spectacle Island. The others would be supportive, for both of them; but for every sincere congratulations would be five teasing jokes that would confuse him and make him run back behind the walls he’s hidden behind for years. 

Of course, none of them would be malicious or intentionally hurtful. But it was just too early - he wasn’t stable enough to sort out teasing and actual advice. He needed to settle in this before they knew, lest he be swayed by a good-natured joke that _he_ took too seriously. 

The obstacles he _actually_ dreaded were far down the line; getting to have anniversaries every year, eventually marriage, the possibility of another kid, growing old. That sort of thing. When you never thought you’d be in requited love, you never stop to think about all the things that love entails. 

And even then, those still aren’t the things that have been the cause behind his most recent freak-outs.

Jess pets his hair, curled up at his side, head on his shoulder and limbs sprawled across him. That, in addition to the heavy pressure from the comforters, makes slipping back into sleep all too _tempting_ . He’s _never_ been one to sleep in - hell, sometimes he couldn’t fall back asleep because he stayed awake the whole night, haunted.

His thoughts run back to that train track of nerves. 

They’d discussed the issue last night.

Danse has slaughtered entire camps of Mutants, braved endless hordes of ferals, fought _himself_ as he stared down the barrel of his own gun. Every enemy, even _his own mind_ \- he’s faced them all and somehow came up victorious.

But for all of those achievements, everything he’s done and seen...

He’s never had sex. 

It’s such a frightening concept. Always has been - Cutler always teased him for his prudishness, his almost-fear of the topic. The idea of being naked, being that _vulnerable_ with someone he didn’t know made his stomach drop. Before this, it would have _had_ to be a stranger - he never thought he would love someone, or that they would love him _back_.

Then Jess crawled out from the Vault and stole his heart, with his lop-sided grins and reckless compassion and driven, focused work ethic that made him weak at the knees. 

He disclosed as such last night, standing at the doorway to the room and staring nervously at the blue floral bedding as Jess tried to assure him it, _he_ , was safe. Jesse himself said he wasn’t ready for that either and that Danse could take all the time he needed, even if that time was ‘never in a million years’. 

It was almost funny - years of paling at the subject among his brothers and sisters while they joked, only to feel comfortable talking, in vulnerable detail, about it with someone just as nervous as he was. 

He didn’t need to have sex with Jesse. They’d settled on that - they didn't need to consummate their relationship.

He didn’t need to - but he _wanted_ to. He wanted to, eventually, be so comfortable in his own skin and with himself _and_ his lover, to engage in something that intimate. 

They’d get there. But right now, all Jess wanted from him was something warm to cling to in the early hours of the morning, and he was _more_ than happy to oblige.

A door from across the hall opens, and soft footsteps trail out into the living room. Danse checks the time - 7:04 AM. Shaun was an early bird, too, likely getting up to enjoy the house to himself, finish up schoolwork before he left at 9. 

He never thought he’d be a dad, either. Jesse seems to have a habit of getting him to try new things. 

Shaun had taken to him the moment they met, before he and Jesse started dating. Wanted to know every little thing about whatever history Danse could teach him. Asked such thoughtful questions for a boy his age, spoke so eloquently just like his dad. 

Jess was almost inhumanly patient. Made it very clear that Danse wasn’t obligated to take on a parental role with Shaun like Danse wasn’t just as in love with his boy. 

He never noticed it until Piper pointed it out to him - apparently, he was naturally fatherly, or brotherly. It certainly explained why the squires always ran to him, wanting to be picked up and told stories, or why younger initiates were drawn to him for advice and words of comfort.

This easily-coming instinct was probably how he came to love Shaun like his own so quickly. 

Shaun, like his dad, charmed everyone who met him. He had his dad’s shaggy black hair and sunny smiles and soft blue eyes, and this youthful, timeless innocence that fought the dark gloom of the wasteland. _That_ was the only stark difference between him and Jess; where Shaun was bright, wide eyes and an unfading excitability, his father watched the world with a tactful, careful calm. 

The only physical difference was Shaun's lack of burn scars - thank goodness - and the baby fat Danse wasn’t sure he would shed. It didn’t matter - the two were nearly identical, so how could he love Jess without loving his son? 

Jess’s hand stills in his hair. His breathing softens, evens out, chest rising and falling as calmly as waves. The man drifts back into sleep, legs entangled with his own, face hidden in the crook of his neck. 

This was nice. It was everything he didn’t know he wanted. 

There’s a pinprick in his heart; something cold and vile. 

He _wants_ this - wants this so fiercely it _frightens_ him. The stolen looks and touches, the softness of Jess’s rough hands on him, the warmth and peacefulness of a sun-lit room with his lover.

But the wasteland doesn’t care what he, or anyone, wants. 

He pulls Jess a little closer, unaware of the darkened look creeping across his face.

Cutler was taken from him. Paladin Krieg was taken from him. All but _two_ of Recon Squad Gladius were taken from him. His very _life and career_ in the Brotherhood, his _identity_ , was taken from him. 

Why would Jess be immune to the reaper’s warpath? Why would the wasteland let him keep the most important thing he’s ever had? 

The Minuteman was, by all accounts, paranormal in the way he survived things he shouldn’t have, did things no one thought possible. He was either inhuman, something not of this world as anyone knew it, incredibly talented, or lucky in a way that would make a gambler turn green with envy. 

The first explanation was, obviously, impossible. Which left the other two - the options that meant he was not impervious to death. No matter how many headshots he survived, how many suicide missions he came back from healthier than when he left, how many armies he faced alone and rose the victor; Jesse Boswel, love and savior of his life, would die.

It’s a fear that he can’t address, can’t fully understand right now; not when Jesse is so, so warm against him, when the shirt he wears isn’t his (something that’s _particularly thrilling_ ), when there’s nothing to do today and they can just stay like this for however long they choose to. 

There’s a high beep from the kitchen, and the smell of fresh coffee wafts into the room. It’s a welcome distraction.

Welcome, until he realizes through the fog of sleepiness that, if the pot had just finished brewing, Shaun would have had to have started it. Not Codsworth - the bot was making sure the others weren’t burning down the bunkhouse. 

Shaun was very much a genuine, caring boy. It wasn’t uncommon for him to try and get dinner or breakfast started, or try to help out by doing chores he wasn’t really old enough to do. Not because he wanted something out of it, but because he wanted to help and loved everyone in his life. 

However, Danse was sceptical when it came to Shaun putting on coffee. 

He doesn’t know what it is about artsy-types - the variety of person who loathes math but can write a poetry book in a day - but for some reason, they all seemed to have an addiction. Hancock was... _Hancock_ , Piper needed cigarettes to survive, X6 ate sweet, sugary junk food and nothing else.

Shaun? Shaun was constantly trying to get at the coffee tins like some kind of _bean demon._ Usually, he was caught and stopped before he could shovel the grounds into his mouth, but the few times he wasn’t, the kid spent the day anxious and twitchy. Poor thing had the first panic attack in months the other week after _someone_ \- Danse suspects Deacon, who hoards the things and was very worried about the boy afterward - gave him an energy drink. 

So, Shaun was unlikely to make fresh coffee for the two adults, and was very likely to chugging the entire pot the same way Cutler did with beer kegs. 

He weighs his options. Stay in bed, where it’s heavenly and warm and Jesse’s a welcome weight, or save the kid from his caffeine addiction he probably picked up in the Institute from coffee-flavored nutrient bars. 

Option 1 is entirely selfish. Option 2 is responsible. 

He is responsible before he is selfish, unfortunately. 

Danse pulls off the covers, Jesse stirring and mumbling unhappily as his living heater worms out from the comforters and his embrace. He pulls the blankets back up over grabby hands reaching for him and the still-mostly-asleep man, leans down and kisses his forehead. The weight and residual heat from the tacky covers stops the sleepy resistance to his departure, and Jess is back to snoring against the pillows. 

Shuffling out into the hallway, the rich smell of a strong brew reminds him of the mess hall on the Prydwen. 

The ex-paladin pauses in his step, the house he just woke up in suddenly hitting him full-force. Not in a harsh way like ice water; more like a stunning realization, noticing things he hadn’t before. It’s the warm wash of coffee down your throat, a hot shower soothing away ache. 

It’s a small house - two bedroom, one bathroom, the storage closet where Jess kept extra supplies like food or components and all of his gardening equipment. He never thought anything of it before. But now, wearing Jess’s Tesla Science shirt, waking up in his arms, in his house, he’s overwhelmed with a feeling that he can only describe as domesticity. 

Shaun’s room is right across from Jesse’s and is filled with his work and projects. The easel in the corner holds a canvas that the boy’d been working on as a gift for Dr. Cabot, a thank-you for the doctor’s part in recovering from the Institute. Every wall and shelf is littered with finished pieces or art supplies - except his desk, which he keeps spotless for school work. 

Danse wasn’t one for art - Jess wasn’t either. Both of them were science, engineering, and practical history. Shaun was an art kid who paled at the sight of numbers.

Every time he’d heard of a family like that, the parents always detested the child for their _‘useless hobby’._

Danse wasn’t one for art - but Shaun’s love for it made him proud of the boy anyway. The way Shaun lit up when talking about different paints and techniques with X6 almost made him love it just as much, if not only for the joy it brought the sunny beach-eyed boy. 

It’s something that...doesn’t quite _pull_ at his heartstrings; more of a _pluck_ , like a worn-down guitar trying to tune itself, trying to learn how to sing. 

He really wants to be Shaun’s step-dad. 

The idea of it hurts, tears the hell out of him, because he thinks it like it’s impossible, like he _didn’t_ just wake up in Shaun’s dad’s arms, like he _isn’t_ getting up just to save the kid from a bad day caused by a dependency he picked up in the Institute. 

The first time they hugged was when Danse came back from Listening Post Bravo. Shaun overheard the guards talking about the incident - ran up to him in tears thinking he’d been killed, just like his dad did. That first time was a bittersweet moment, one he considered with more _pain_ than _fondness_. But the second time?

That was when they’d all sat down, and Jess told Shaun what was going on between them. They talked for a few hours, about the adults in Shaun’s life in the Institute and his mom. Told him that he didn’t need to forget everything he’d gone through and just accept Danse as Dad 2.0 right away. At the end of it, when it was way past the boy’s bedtime, he wrapped his arms around Danse’s neck - told him ‘goodnight’, ‘I love you’, and more importantly, ‘I'm glad you both happier now.'

Yeah, he’s big enough of a man to admit he shed a tear after the kid was tucked in bed. 

The clinking of the silverware drawer and roll of it being shut brings him out of the moment, and reminds him why he’s ruminating in the hallway. He can see Shaun’s warped shadow against the floor and walls down in the kitchen/living room. 

Danse swallows back the sigh, and lumbers down the hallway, lit up ethereally from sunbeams reflecting off of the walls. 

He passes the storage closet, and it’s then that he notices quiet sizzling and the smell of butter, pepper, and something savory. As he leans out from the hall, there are two things that catch him by surprise. 

Shaun flinches from his perch atop the kitchen island, knowing he’s been foiled yet again. The boy giggles nervously, “Morning! I've already got breakfast going."

There’s yao gui bacon in the oven, eggs by the stove waiting to be fried, bread by the toaster, and a serving tray with two plates. 

Normally, his heart would have clenched at the sight of his step-son making him and his dad breakfast in bed - and so _efficiently_ , too. Making bacon in the oven decreases chance of Shaun getting hurt, waiting to make the eggs and toast after the bacon due to their short lifespan, having all of his equipment and ingredients at the ready instead of running all over the kitchen like MacCready does - normally, he would have been so proud. 

Normally. 

However, in this instance, all he feels is _horror_. A punch in the gut, the twist in the throat, shock to the heart. 

Because Shaun is sitting on the kitchen island, which he does sometimes. That’s not what horrifies Danse. 

What horrifies Danse is Shaun, sitting on the kitchen island, waiting to make him breakfast, coffee pot next to him, _making a giant straw with small straws and tape._

“Shaun…” He starts, somewhat stern and entirely concerned, before he feels Jess shuffle up behind him, likely drawn from sleep by the smell of bacon. 

The other man presses a kiss to the back of his neck, oblivious to his trepidation, and mumbles against his shoulder, “Good morning, my lover,” before sidling past him into the kitchen.   
  


And then pauses.

Pushes his hair out of his face and takes in the sight before the both of them. 

Danse watches his eyes go from the bacon, to the coffee pot, to the straw. 

“Baby boy, _what_ , in God’s good name, _are you doing?”_

“Making you food?”

“Shaun. Put. The straw-kinstein’s monster. _Down.”_

There’s that feeling again. That impossible warmth that spreads through him alongside the blood in his veins, that peace he thought he had in the Brotherhood. 

He can’t stop the smile on his face, even as Shaun tries to negotiate to get his coffee-fix.

**Author's Note:**

> funfact: I started a fic about Jesse about a year ago, but orphaned it because it was problematic. The title was in latin. If you know the fic/can find it, you get a gold star ⭐
> 
> but seriously, im really proud of Jess now. He's one of my best characters imo


End file.
